


Who You Are

by Charlievh



Category: F.E.A.R. (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, M/M, Paranormal, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Horror, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlievh/pseuds/Charlievh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The streets of Fairport may be empty, but that does not mean there is nothing to be found. (set during F.3.A.R.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who You Are

**Author's Note:**

> A heartfelt thanks to my beta and mentor PestoMonkey. Not only does she bring out the best in my writing, but she even let me talk her into playing F.E.A.R. for the purpose of beta-reading this fic. Girl, I owe you so much.
> 
> Warning: (minor) incest slash.

  


"There is too little love in this world to rebuff it when it blossoms."  
— _The Hobbit of My Affections_ by Christina

  


Point Man swiftly rounded the corner and pressed his back against the crumbling remains of a residential building. Coiling his index finger around the trigger of his assault rifle, he waited, motionless apart from his heaving chest, while his ears strained to pick up the faintest noise. When the silence around him persisted, he slowly peeked his head around the corner to look down the alleyway through which he had sprinted. Between some rusty and dented trash containers, water steadily dripped down a loose rain pipe into a small puddle on the ground. Unread pages of long forgotten newspapers scattered in the wind. An unnatural red glow pervaded the sky overhead, reminding him that the lengthening shadows at his feet heralded something far more destructive than an ordinary sunset.

Not a soul—living or undead—to be seen.

Satisfied, Point Man lowered his rifle and turned around to continue his way across the deserted city streets.

To be fair, not even Armacham's dimwitted excuse for security guards were likely to find much resistance from the blabbering, mindless zombies that had once been the citizens of Fairport. Still, the incessant onslaught of twitching maniacs drained ammo at about the same rate his mother's labor pains were corrupting half the world and then some, for all he knew. After disposing of his empty shotgun, he had been forced to use his last frag grenade in order to shake off the latest horde of undead pursuers. He did not want to dwell on what would happen if he failed to hit upon some fresh ammo or weapons soon. At least Armacham appeared to have lost his trail completely.

As if on cue, a tiny red light flashed in the periphery of his vision the moment he emerged from another backstreet.

_Sniper._

Point Man's lifetime of military training took over while the rush of adrenaline activated his superhuman reflexes, warping the world around him as time seemed to slow down. His heartbeat sounded sluggish and loud in his ears while he moved on pure instinct, diving for the nearest cover. He did not even blink when a bullet whizzed past his neck and hit the wall where his head had been a split second before.

Without warning, a blinding, screaming pain exploded in his right thigh, momentarily turning his vision black while tears sprang to his eyes. His shot leg promptly gave way, and he half stumbled, half fell behind the car wreck he had been making for. His brain seemed to shut down from the impact, and for several moments Point Man found himself unable to move while he lay prostrate on the cracked pavement. At last, grimacing and gritting his teeth in sheer agony, he succeeded in pushing himself up on his hands and rolling onto his back. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to regain his breath, and he almost passed out when he forced himself to sit up in order to examine the gunshot wound. His right thigh was a bloody, useless, god awful mess that throbbed maddeningly. The sickening tang of blood definitely didn't help.

Tearing his eyes away, Point Man shifted until, with a hiss, he could rest his back against the wrecked car. The simple movement caused him to break out in a cold sweat. The pain twisted ever deeper into his flesh like a knife, making it harder and harder to think straight. If he had been screwed before, there was no way he would make it out of here alive as long as that sniper still lurked about.

And not even his mother would help him out this time. Alma's once watchful mind had turned inward, distracted and sapped of its strength by the tiny soul she carried inside her. Her psychic throes, however powerful, were spasmodic and erratic, lacking purpose as they swept over the city like a wild beast running rampant until it finally collapsed from exhaustion. She would not come. And the thought should not make him feel as abandoned as it did.

"The building straight ahead. Second floor, second window to the right. He is alone. And scared."

As fogged up as his brain was, Paxton Fettel's calm voice rang through his head as clear and confident as ever.

For once, he didn't mind.

After a brief consideration, Point Man shouldered his rifle and reached for the particle weapon slung over his back. One finger traced the slightly scraped metal as he regarded the laser gun in his hands, thankful he had decided to put up with the extra weight. His eyes flicked to the crescent-shaped screen, checking the blue number out of habit even though he had kept close count in his head. Three beams left. Not that it mattered—he would only get one chance anyway.

Pure survival instinct combined with a high pain tolerance allowed Point Man to struggle to one foot and half squat, half kneel behind the car wreck. He rested his forehead against the cold metal and took a few deep breaths, both to will the pain away and to draw upon the last reserves of his body and spirit.

His quick reflexes would not be enough, not with his leg unable to keep up. He needed the element of surprise. The sniper undoubtedly knew he had hit him. Knew he was unable to run. Knew the only thing he _could_ try was a desperate counterattack. Point Man's brain worked furiously, feverishly trying to hold its train of thought. He raised his head. Second window to the right, Fettel had said. Which meant his best chance of getting a clear shot was either over the roof of the car he was currently using for cover, or on the right side of it… exactly as his opponent would be anticipating. If he ducked his head out, that treacherous little red light would be the last thing he ever saw.

There was only one other option. The left side. The angle would be awkward, the position counterintuitive. But it might buy him that crucial extra second.

With grim determination, Point Man crawled over to the left side of the car, careful not to give himself away while keeping the pressure off his injured leg as much as possible. He then dragged himself into a crouching position and concentrated. Willed his mind and body back into fighting mode. And although it took more time and effort than usual, his nervous system still responded. The pain forgotten, he became hyperaware of every ridge and curve of the gun in his hands, every taut muscle in his calves, every quickening beat of his heart, the very blood flowing through his veins. He could all but see the sniper's agitation in his mind's eye, the man's dilated pupils vacillating between peering through the scope and scanning the vicinity.

A deadly silence hung heavy over the city ruins.

_Now._

The world around him seemed stuck in time once more as Point Man darted out from behind his hiding spot, instinctively placing most of his weight on his left leg but no longer worried whether the right would support him. His sharp eyes flew to a broken window on the second floor and instantly spotted the camouflaged, masked figure hunched behind its rifle. Still running, Point Man twisted his upper body to the right while he raised the particle weapon to his eyes, years of training and experience allowing him to pinpoint the man's location through his zoom lens within seconds. The sniper's head had rolled up in his direction, and ridiculously slow hands were turning the .50 his way when Point Man aimed and fired.

A single radiant beam of purple shot forth from the laser gun's chamber, the impact melting its target away in a gratifying cloud of blood, flesh and brains. An eerily grinning skeleton slumped back against the now crimson wall as a silent testament to the gun's lethal power.

Point Man had barely lowered his rifle and skidded to a stop when the slow-motion effect wore off. The sharp pain in his thigh returned, fiercer than ever, biting through skin and muscle like acid. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he had to lean against a nearby lamppost to keep from keeling over. So much for savoring his victory, he supposed.

He had to get out of here—fast. The sniper may have alerted his Armacham buddies via radio, and even if he hadn't, the streets were far from secure. Above him, angrily swirling clouds—blood red laced with streaks of lightning—plunged everything beneath them in an unnaturally hushed trance. The calm before the storm. Time was running out.

But first, he needed to find a safe haven to tend to that damned leg of his.

The district consisted of little more than broken asphalt and stone debris riddled with steel bars, but a few structures remained standing. Point Man put the laser gun away in favor of his assault rifle, and limped an excruciating ten yards to the nearest building, increasingly unable to put any weight upon his injured leg. A fire had charred the building's façade past the point of recognition, but otherwise the framework looked in good enough shape to serve as a temporary shelter. Taking a final glance around him to make sure no one saw him enter, Point Man slammed the wooden door open with the butt of his gun and hobbled inside.

***

Prior to crossing the threshold, he caught a glimpse of the destroyed lobby of a small apartment, but the moment the door shut behind him, everything turned to pitch black. Somehow, Point Man doubted that the sudden darkness was the result of boarded-up windows, and his suspicions were confirmed when a single light bulb sprang to life in the distance. His sight was inexplicably blurred all of a sudden, particularly around the edges. Could his mother be reaching out to him once more?

Up ahead, the dusty yellow glare illuminated the far end of an impossibly long corridor, reminiscent of the bleak hospital hallway Alma had last shown him many months ago. Except here the walls were old and covered by peeling, dirty brown floral patterns, more resembling an abandoned hotel or an old-fashioned mental asylum. Unmarked doors lined the walk on both sides while the one behind him was gone, replaced by bare wall.

His movements uncannily slow and heavy, Point Man cautiously started walking toward the faint glow in the distance, keeping his weapon at the ready just in case. He knew the drill of these visions by now, but his limp and lack of ammo made him feel vulnerable and nervous.

He had hardly taken three steps when something moved up ahead. The naked silhouette of a young woman stood inside the dim circle of light. Her face was shrouded in shadows as well as partially hidden behind sleek, disheveled black hair, but Point Man knew she was watching him. His feet unconsciously picked up the pace, taking him ever further down the corroded passage. He passed maybe a dozen doors before realizing the figure was no closer than it had been a few minutes ago.

At that moment, the sole light source went out with a dull click that echoed across the empty hallway.

Swallowed up by blackness, Point Man halted and waited. The sound of his own breathing unnerved him in the utter silence. For an endless ten seconds, nothing happened. Then a second lamp switched on, this one right above his head. The yellow gleam was too weak even to touch the walls on either side of him, effectively trapping him on an island in an impenetrable sea of darkness.

Another ominous click and the light disappeared again. Having no use for his eyes, Point Man strained his ears for the sound of footsteps approaching, a door creaking, a whisper in the gloom, anything.

When a third light flickered on, no more than three feet away, the slender frame of his mother stood inside the gleam, facing him. Point Man involuntarily jumped, his finger tight around the trigger, but his jitters turned to confusion when he regarded her more closely.

Something was wrong. Alma's pale hands, clasped over the round curve of her belly, were red and slick with blood. Her eyes—two sunken black holes in her head—flicked to the floor, and Point Man's attention was drawn to the massive amount of blood pooling at her feet. With a concerned frown, his eyes followed the crimson trail up her ankles to where it was leaking between her thin legs.

Point Man reached out a gloved hand—not quite sure what to do but wanting to do _something_ —when a shrill, ringing tone pierced his eardrums and Alma began to twitch violently. Her mouth opened in a silent cry as her entire body clenched with what appeared to be labor contractions. Point Man noticed with horror that the walls had turned to flesh and were convulsing in tandem with her, veins pulsing and throbbing to a sick, frantic rhythm. An animalistic moan of pain and despair shattered the piercing noise, and suddenly his mother's hands were clawing and ripping at her belly, long nails compulsively tearing the skin apart. Point Man could only watch in dismay as her spider-like hands reached inside the gaping self-inflicted wound to perform some kind of macabre C-section, slowly pulling something from the moist depths of her body. The umbilical cord protruded from her maimed belly while the ugly, quivering thing attached to it buried itself in the crook of her arms.

Point Man frowned again as he studied the lump of raw flesh. Apart from the scrawny back turned toward him, most of it cowered in the shadow of his mother's slender curves. For some reason, he could not take his eyes off the thing, and he knew—just _knew_ —that it could feel his stare.

Then it turned to face him.

Point Man would have cried out in shock had he been able to. As it was, his eyes widened when the thing staring back at him had the face of Harlan Wade, complete with glasses and moustache. The sight of that cold, aloof expression triggered something in a subconscious part of Point Man's brain, filling him with well-remembered anger and disgust. And then came that hated voice, reverberating through the hallway.

"You."

Even speaking that one syllable, Harlan's tone was scornful and disparaging. Without thinking, Point Man raised his rifle and aimed dead between the creature's loathsome eyes. The bundle in Alma’s arms merely gave a short, derisive laugh.

"Oh, would that it were that easy. Our greatest fears and regrets laid to rest with something as mundane as a bullet. Tell me, how is that working for you so far?"

Point Man unwittingly bared his teeth at his old tormentor while his hands kept a steady hold on the rifle. Harlan was not impressed.

"I see. You still think of me as your enemy. Does our failure truly run that deep? Not even the first prototype turns out to be immune to man's unfailing propensity to negate his own flaws by putting the blame on others. Surely you did not think everything would be over just because I am dead? Don't you see that without me, you are lost? Machinery without an operator. A weapon without a wielder. A hungry lab rat desperately pushing buttons long after the experiment has been cancelled."

Point Man's eyes narrowed threateningly, and he glanced up at his mother. Alma seemed entranced, her head bent down miserably and staring past the vile thing in her arms into nothingness. For all her psychic abilities, the monster that was supposed to be her father had always held the power to reduce her to the human equivalent of a whipped dog. The whole scene made him sick.

"I could have given you the world. Now, you are _nothing_. Mindlessly chasing after pitiful delusions, dreams of a family that can never be. Do you honestly believe that a test subject like you has a place on this earth? Or do you plan on being on the run forever?"

The flow of words kept pouring from Harlan's mouth like black tar, rotting the air around them much the same way his looming presence had in the past. Point Man was contemplating the relative merits of firing one more bullet when the world around him was shaken to its foundations. A dazzling white light burst from the ceiling and lit up the entire corridor, while powerful ripples of air sent his hair flying back like the shock waves from an explosion. Raising a hand to shield his watering eyes from the wind lashing against his face, Point Man tried to look up into the blinding glow. A woman's high-pitched, anguished wail split the air and his vision turned bright white, then black, as everything crumbled in its wake.

***

Point Man's ears were still ringing when he raised his head and reopened his eyes. He was greeted by a dilapidated but ordinary stone wall. The blurry edges in his sight were gone, as was the certain sluggishness to his movements. The vision was over.

He gave a weary sigh and turned around, expecting to see the small, deteriorated lobby he had initially entered. What he did not expect was the ghostly, flame-engulfed form of Paxton Fettel standing in its center. The younger man gazed past him, fixated on the invisible spot beyond the wall where their mother had stood mere seconds ago. His pale eyes were strangely out of focus, and the smirk that almost permanently played on his lips nowadays was conspicuously absent.

Fettel caught him staring, but instead of countering with the usual glint in his eyes—the one Point Man generally referred to as either mischievous or just plain demented, depending on his mood—he shot his older brother a dark look before averting his head again. His feet agitatedly started to pace the room.

"The contractions may be getting stronger, but her suffering has left her weakened," Fettel spoke in his soft voice. "Not only physically, but mentally as well. Left her… receptive. That vision… it was not hers. Not exclusively. _He_ has been invading her mind, infecting her like a disease."

The last words were uttered with a hateful sneer, and Point Man felt an odd pang of sympathy. He might feel a profound hostility toward Harlan Wade, but as the first prototype, he had never borne the brunt of the man's atrocities. Beastly though his youth may have been—and more dark memories seemed to resurface with every other step he took—nothing compared to the endless observations, tests, and experiments Fettel had been forced to sit through as a child. Just like his mother. Hours at a time, sometimes for days on end. More often than not returning to their shared prison either bruised and bleeding, or in a near-catatonic state. It had confused and scared the hell out of Point Man.

Fettel had never let him in on the things they did to him during those sessions. All Point Man had known at the time was that his cellmate was terrified of Harlan Wade. It was in the way the boy went rigid the instant he heard the echo of footsteps down the corridor, no matter how engrossed in play he might have been seconds earlier. In the way he flinched at the impassive male voice outside their door as it conversed with some faceless, nameless scientist.

But most of all, it was in his eyes.

And in spite of the murderous, sadistic and cannibalistic tendencies Fettel had developed as an adult, it seemed neither age nor Armacham had ever erased those memories from his mind. For his eyes reflected that very same look of terror when he continued.

"And now he is using her to get to us, to control us… to make us _his_ once more."

Point Man's head snapped up, his blood boiling. No. Those days were long gone. There was no way he would let that monster own them again.

Surprised at the unprecedented surge of protectiveness, he looked over at Fettel, who considered him with interest as he appeared to sense his older brother's inner turmoil. Holding his gaze, Point Man reached down to remove the knife from his belt and lifted the blade in front of his face before slowly, meaningfully, putting it against his own throat. The gesture might have signaled his intention to kill the psychic manifestation of Harlan Wade—if that was at all possible. It might have conveyed that he would rather die than fall back into their grandfather's hands. Either way, it made one thing very clear.

_He will not break us._

Fettel's pupils had widened slightly during the mute but unmistakable act of defiance, and now one corner of his mouth slowly quirked up in a predatory grin. The old derangement was back in his eyes, gleaming and sinister like the teeth of a predator unchained. He gave a dark, appreciative chuckle.

"The lost son has returned. Enemies of the family, beware."

Point Man ignored his brother as he sheathed the knife, but he secretly welcomed the change in atmosphere. Fettel's moods had a funny habit of rubbing off on him, and for a moment, the ever-lurking shadow of Harlan Wade had made him feel like an eleven-year-old boy again—scared and helpless in the dark. And he hated it.

Fettel had started toward the door and looked back over his shoulder. "Come, brother. She needs us. We must find her… before _he_ does."

Point Man nodded, absently hoisting up his rifle. He made to follow his brother when he was brutally reminded of why he had sought refuge in these ruins in the first place. While standing still, he must have unconsciously shifted his balance to his healthy leg, because the moment his weight came down upon the other foot, the pain of his temporarily forgotten sniper wound flared up through the entire right side of his body. Finally pushed beyond its limits, his injured leg buckled, causing him to fall to one knee. Catching himself on his hands, Point Man took a steadying breath before stiffly moving to sit up against the wall behind him. He gingerly bent his right knee to inspect the damage done.

On one side, the remains of his shredded camo pants were soaked dark red with blood. Point Man winced as he carefully gripped the frayed edges of fabric and tore them apart to fully bare the entry wound underneath.

Every visible square inch of skin was sticky with dried blood, but he knew there was no danger of his bleeding to death. Under normal circumstances, the impact of a .50 caliber bullet would have blown off most of the leg, but Point Man's body could withstand a lot worse than an ordinary man's and healed far more quickly. From the way he had been able to abuse his injured limb, he concluded the bone must have been spared, and his gently probing fingers discovered an exit wound near the underside of his thigh. Good. The last thing he needed was a bullet lodged inside him.

"As much as I hate to admit it, especially to the man responsible… death does have its benefits."

Fettel had rejoined his side to watch the rudimentary self-examination, and gave a pleasant shiver when Point Man delicately pressed the skin around the bullet hole. A tiny rivulet of crimson leaked down his already blood-stained skin, indicating that the wound had all but closed completely. He would simply have to wrap it up and hope for the best.

Point Man searched his pockets for a moment and pulled out a first-aid dressing. When he looked back up, he froze at the sight in front of him. Something in Fettel's expression had changed. His piercing eyes, rapt and unblinking, were riveted on Point Man's thigh. He looked almost hypnotized. Almost… hungry.

"The things the taste of blood could reveal to me once," Fettel spoke in a soft, faraway voice. "People's innermost thoughts. Their deepest secrets. And, best of all… their darkest fears." He gave an evil chuckle, eyes still trained on Point Man's leg. "All mine for the taking… and take I did. I wonder…"

Point Man stirred, not liking where this was going, but before he could rise from his sitting position, a casual wave of Fettel's hand caused an invisible pressure to pin him against the wall. His brother's eyes flicked up to meet his, but it did anything but reassure him. They were the eyes of a madman.

"I am sorry for this, brother, but the opportunity is just too good to pass up."

Point Man struggled against his psychic binds as Fettel approached him, remembering only too well what had remained of Charles Habegger and Alice Wade after his brother was done with them. And seeing as their mother had become _pregnant_ in her spirit form, he doubted her son's ghost would be deterred by his own death.

His efforts were in vain. Heart beating wildly in his chest, Point Man could do nothing but watch and brace himself as Fettel slowly lowered his mouth to his injured thigh. Yet nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

His eyes widened in shock when his brother proceeded to lick up the thin trail of blood still trickling down his leg, his tongue deftly, eagerly running over the bare patch of skin and leaving an odd tingling sensation in its wake. Before he had time to fully comprehend what was going on, Fettel sat up again, eyes falling shut as he licked his lips and gave a quiet moan of ecstasy. At once, the pressure on his upper body lifted, but Point Man still didn't budge, the pain in his leg forgotten as he stared at his brother in revolted fascination.

"Ah, yes. Even now, the voices have not fallen silent," Fettel sighed pleasurably. "There is nothing like the taste of one's own blood. It tastes… eerily familiar. So powerful, so full of life and rage… and loneliness."

Point Man felt a chill, unsettling shiver of realization crawl down his spine. Fettel did not need to consume the flesh of his victims. Their whole life, their very soul was laid bare before his brother in but a few crimson drops. And for reasons unbeknown even to himself, Point Man dreaded what his own might divulge.

"They made you forget who you are," Fettel stated pensively, reopening his eyes to look at him. "Made you forget about your own family, then ordered you to hunt us. Me… and her. And you never hesitated. Finding mother has been the sole thing on both our minds all along… but you always told yourself our reasons were different."

Point Man averted his eyes at the accusatory tone, but Fettel easily slid between his legs to crouch in front of him. Forced to look back up, Point Man was met with a gaze that burned him with its intensity. Whatever his blood had told his brother, the words evidently held him enthralled.

"Yet as we are getting closer to her, you begin to wonder… just how much of your resolution is due to the 'assignment' that woman has given you, rather than more personal motives? You ask yourself why you are here. And deep down… you are afraid to know the answer."

Never taking his eyes off him, Fettel leaned forward until their faces were mere inches apart. He licked his lips again, as if desperate to capture the last traces of blood on his tongue. Point Man tensed up but otherwise remained perfectly still, unwilling to betray his confusion and trepidation. Fettel's voice became softer still, incredulous.

"But perhaps more than any of this… your mind still dwells on whether shooting me was the right thing to do. Blood never lies, brother. I can taste the doubt, the guilt… the regret. I was all you had left. Your little brother. And a part of you still believes things could have been different."

He moved even closer, lips now hovering right over Point Man's. There was a hint of timidity in his manner that made the gesture feel intimate rather than threatening. Point Man's apprehension softened into curiosity.

"They still could be," Fettel whispered, and the next instant his mouth lightly, tentatively brushed over Point Man's, who automatically but weakly jerked his head to the side.

"Shhh, brother. Do not fight it," Fettel soothed, pushing no further but not drawing back either. "Do you think this is wrong? I think, if anything, they have corrupted our view of what is right. Tell me, in your over thirty years of life, have you ever used your senses for anything other than combat? Seen your body as a source of pleasure rather than pain? Known the gentle touch of a caress on your skin? I have neither."

Point Man was conflicted. The act of his brother ought to surprise him— _bother_ him—but it didn't. This was the closest he had ever been to another person without murder or hatred in his heart, and even with no breath to fall across his face, no warmth whatever emanating from the not-body in front of him, this novel intimacy gave him a sense of comfort. A semblance of humanity.

Somehow, Fettel had always been able to hear the words behind his silence. When he spoke again, his tone was not so much persuasive as it was vindicatory.

"After everything we've endured, I would say a little brotherly affection may well be the one hope left to our family. Does this _feel_ wrong to you?"

Fettel brought an unsure hand up to run along the side of his brother's face, and let it linger in wonder when Point Man did not shrink away. Their eyes locked again, two different shades in essence reflecting the same blue.

After a brief consideration, Fettel quietly stated, "We don't belong to _him_. We belong to mother, to the family… to each other."

This time, it was Point Man who closed the narrow gap between them and captured Fettel's mouth with his own, eliciting a soft noise of surprise from the stunned younger man. The hand slid from his cheek, seemingly forgotten, as Point Man coaxed his suddenly insecure little brother to respond in kind, until Fettel's lips hesitantly pressed themselves against his willing flesh.

The forbidden touch stirred unknown sensations within Point Man. Mouths moved gently together, silently expressing the unspeakable. Eyelids fell shut to reveal what both had been too blind to see. Gloved fingers traced dead skin and brought back life to what they had killed. The secret dance of two brothers. United in solitude. Bound by blood.

When they broke apart, Point Man mirrored Fettel's earlier gesture and laid a hand on his brother's cheek. Now more than ever he was painfully, inescapably reminded of what he had done. Staring at the glaring bullet hole in front of him— _his_ doing—Point Man rested their foreheads together, looking his brother in the eye and hoping he would understand. Hoping he might forgive.

Fettel calmly returned his gaze, the beginnings of a smile playing around his mouth, but at that moment Point Man caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows behind his brother. He quickly forced himself into a squatting position, dimly registering that his leg was responding just fine, while Fettel turned around and slid in place beside him, poised to face the potential threat.

On the other side of the room, her face impassive, their mother's eight-year-old form stood watching them—a little black-haired girl in a red dress. When she had the attention of her sons, Alma slowly stepped forward. Her petite bare feet imperturbably crossed the debris-covered floor while she smiled and stretched out a tiny hand toward the two men hunkered down by the wall.

Fettel smiled back and was about to offer his own hand in greeting when Alma's image briefly skipped, like a bad record. At once, shadows darkened and bled along the walls, and the shapes in Point Man's peripheral vision seemed to distort, warping everything but where his eyes happened to focus. After blinking rapidly a couple of times, he found the whole room to be a pulsing, glistening mass of flesh, similar to the endless corridor from before. Except this tissue looked necrotic—the veins were filled with a sickly black fluid, pus oozed from festering sores and lumps, and the diseased organic walls beat to a shallow, irregular rhythm characteristic of fibrillation.

Point Man quickly retrieved the rifle lying by his side and got to his feet. He frowned in suspicion and glanced beside him to see a matching expression on Fettel's face. This was no ordinary vision.

Their mother's image jerked back to her gaunt adult form, and she weakly fell down on her hands and knees, sleek black hair obscuring her face. The wan figure remained huddled on the floor for long seconds before tilting its head back. When the curtain of hair slid aside, the corpse-like, eyeless head of the Creep glared up at them.

Loathsome though the scene was, it was the cruel voice that accompanied it that made Point Man cringe. For its owner was the actual monster.

"Do you understand now?" Harlan Wade's voice asked spitefully. "Why this life can never be yours? No matter how hard you try, nothing in this world will ever be safe from the taint that resides within you. It is who you are, who you were made to be."

"Who _you_ made us to be," Fettel growled back, for perhaps the first time in his life daring to stand up against the nightmare that had dominated his childhood. "But no more. Your poison shall corrupt us no more."

An ugly, humorless laugh burst forth from the flapping jaws of the Creep.

"You think breaking away from me, erasing my memory, is the key to escaping your past. Or perhaps killing me is. After all, nothing beats death as a chance at life. As ever, you fail to see the truth. This is not about me. It has never been about me."

A sinewy, pallid arm gestured between the two brothers.

" _Look_ at you. You have twisted the most pure and beautiful of emotions into a sick mockery of itself. Perverted it into one of the oldest and vilest taboos known to man. Consider the object of your 'love'—your own flesh and blood. Shameful. Unspeakable. _That_ is what you are without me."

He had barely uttered these last words when a high-pitched, excruciating tone started whistling in Point Man's ears once more, the noise rapidly rising into a woman's infuriated shriek. The building appeared to be seized by a violent earthquake as Point Man pressed his hands against his ears and squinted up against the veil of white light that permeated the entire room, swallowing up the surroundings until, within seconds, they were completely hidden from view.

***

When the world fell silent and the glow subsided, he was standing alone in an endless white room. The place would have resembled a void, sterile laboratory if not for the fact that there were no walls, no ceiling, not even a floor as far as he could look. Nothing but pure whiteness that seemed to stretch on forever.

He knew what it meant, of course. Even though he did not see his mother, he could sense her presence. He had recognized her scream, and this setting—unlike the previous one—definitely held her signature.

Something moved a few yards up ahead. Point Man looked down at the would-be floor to see the small, bloody footprints of a child slowly approaching him, dark red against the pale white of the room. His muscles tensed as the vibrant trail of crimson blotches continued to make its way toward him step by step.

At last, the feet halted immediately in front of him.

Point Man did not know how long he simply stood and waited, on his guard but unsure what to do. Then, unexpectedly, there was a hint of invisible fingers on his cheek. He started, but a soft whisper rang through his head, reassuring him.

_I am here… he will not hurt you anymore… I will keep you safe._

Alma's voice sounded frail, as from exhaustion, and Point Man sensed she spoke with great difficulty. With a pang of guilt, he realized that Fettel had only told him half the truth. If Alma was weakened and alone, drained by the throes of her labor and her father's dark influence, it was because she had _meant_ for it to happen. Drawing Harlan Wade toward her—away from her sons—had been a deliberate maneuver on her part. And when all her attempts had failed, she had overcome her childhood fear by seeking a direct confrontation with the Creep. All to protect the both of them.

Point Man closed his eyes in angry defeat as he remembered what Harlan Wade had said.

_Nothing beats death as a chance at life._

_Except love._

A new whisper interrupted his musings, while the loving pressure on his face gently forced his chin up. There was no mistaking what she was referring to. Point Man kept his eyes shut against the shame those two simple words filled him with. Against the painfully recent memory of the Creep being forced back to the forefront of his mind.

Now that he was older and stronger, Harlan Wade no longer frightened him, but his parting words had struck a chord deep inside Point Man all the same. And the more he thought about it—as much as he wanted to deny it—the more he realized his grandfather was right. In ways not even Armacham had fathomed, he truly was the failure they had always termed him to be. He had gone from fratricide to developing a bond with Fettel that never should exist between brothers—a sick mockery of love, as Harlan had called it. And even now, he could not bring himself to regret it.

To substitute sin for sin. Perhaps, in the end, that was all he was capable of.

As an unfamiliar feeling of hollowness settled over him, Point Man allowed himself the comfort of leaning into the soothing psychic touch of his mother, even though he did not understand her sympathy. How could she see their transgression as something worth saving?

 _You_ made _me see…_

Another caress over his face, and Point Man felt tendrils of images and sensations brush over his mind and embrace him, merging with him like two hands entwining fingers until they formed a whole. Alma's thoughts became a soundless song that resonated deep within his being.

_My sons have found their way back to each other… my babies have come home._

In a vision-like blur, he could see himself and Fettel through Alma's eyes as they sat opposite one another in the dilapidated room. Their foreheads were pressed together while they stared into each other's eyes, their faces uncharacteristically soft and gentle. The imaginary Point Man's hand was still resting on his brother's cheek, and only now did his onlooking counterpart notice that Fettel had trembled slightly under his touch. He looked strangely vulnerable.

Point Man's first impulse had been to look away from the scene, but the longer he watched the sinful interaction between himself and his brother through Alma's eyes, the less he could remember why. To her, they were beautiful. In her sons, she saw the affirmation that there was more to life than death. She saw everything she had never been.

She saw the one part of her worth saving.

_Look after your brother… remember your family… remember who you are._

The images in front of him disappeared when the endless white flickered to black for a split second. Point Man instinctively looked around for his mother even as he could feel her mental hold on him slipping. Emptiness chilled his mind where she had cradled him before, and he was unsure whether it was intentional or the result of her waning strength.

Either way, the words sounded too much like a goodbye.

Once more, his surroundings blurred before his eyes until everything had faded away in a blinding white light. Then a faint whisper kissed his mind.

_You were loved… you will always be loved._

***

When the brightness died down, Point Man found himself back in the same old decayed room, his head still spinning from the link he had shared with his mother. There was no trace of either Alma or the Creep, and for a moment Point Man did not know whether to feel relieved or alarmed at the abrupt stillness. Then his eyes were drawn to the center of the room.

Kneeling on the floor with his hands resting on his thighs, facing him, was Fettel. His brother's head was bent down and he appeared oblivious to everything around him. The sight seemed vaguely familiar to Point Man, even though he couldn't quite place it.

As he made his way over to his brother's motionless form, Point Man's reeling thoughts again gave way to that unknown feeling of protectiveness. The dark desire to kill Harlan Wade still raged inside him, but it was a mere shadow cast by the light of a much stronger emotion. A sense of belonging, of acceptance. All that had driven him this whole time was an obsession with destroying the past… at the cost of a future. _Their_ future.

Perhaps his mother had seen what he himself had not—perhaps he truly had come home.

"She has reached out to you as well."

Fettel spoke without stirring, his words the only acknowledgement of his brother's presence. Point Man unwittingly halted at the hint of acidity in his tone.

"I was sitting like this when she did the same to me," Fettel said pensively. "When her thoughts became my own and she and I became as one. The first time it happened, I killed seven Armacham employees, even though I was but a boy. The second time…," here he paused, a bitter chuckle escaping him. "Well, I don't need to tell _you_ about that, do I?"

Fettel finally raised his head to look up at his brother, the touch of humor instantly fading from his face. "Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn't it?" he mused. "Then again, in my case, it is."

Point Man scowled at the bad joke as well as the harsh reminder, but it went unnoticed as Fettel's gaze clouded over, the hard lines of his face softening while a flicker of sadness seemed to cross his features. For several moments, his brother seemed adrift in an inner maelstrom of thoughts and memories, until the pale eyes regained their focus and bore back into Point Man, flashing with sudden venomous spite.

"You must be pleased, _brother_ ," Fettel hissed, emphasizing the last word with a sneer. "I will not be the last to have a taste of your handiwork. Mother will not survive and the child will never be born. Perhaps she will even succeed in dragging _him_ down with her, but either way, it is of little consequence. For even if Harlan Wade outlives us all, there will be no souls left for him to haunt. Aside from you, of course… but then, in a way, you're already dead, aren't you? For what is apathy, if not living while dead on the inside?"

The words stung. Not because they were not true, but because, until very recently, they _had_ been. Those early weeks in F.E.A.R.—uncomplicated, detached, numb—now seemed as unreal and fragile as a dream to Point Man. A dream in which he had inflicted all-too-real wounds that, upon waking, turned out to be beyond healing.

It was too little, too late.

Fettel watched the effect of his words with calm, resigned indifference. "That is why mother has chosen to speak to you now. At last, we have come full circle," he concluded softly. "As I was the beginning, you will be the end. Neither able to exist without the other, yet forever doomed to remain opposites."

The cold hard truth spoken by his brother's lips affected Point Man in ways even those nightmarish hallucinations never had. Hurt him deeper than bullets ever could. Gloved hands clenched more tightly around their rifle.

_Enough._

Swallowing down his emotions, Point Man decided to do the one thing he hoped might make Fettel change his mind, or would at least shut him up. Something he felt he should have done a long time ago.

After a brief hesitation, he held his hand out to his brother.

Fettel had opened his mouth again—no doubt to spew another snide taunt—but now his eyes widened in surprise and confusion, flicking to the upturned palm and back to Point Man's face. Point Man steadily met his gaze and waited, his arm outstretched, as he silently pleaded with his brother to hear the unspoken declaration.

 _Things_ could _still be different._

For long seconds, two pairs of matching blue eyes conversed while the two men found themselves opposite one another, at once closer and yet further apart than they had ever been.

Then Fettel tentatively reached out a hand to grasp his brother's.

Point Man curled firm fingers around him and pulled him to his feet, letting his touch linger while Fettel's eyes glinted with barely contained excitement. They stood like that for a while, sharing a meaningful look between them, until Point Man finally released his hold. Fettel chose that moment to dissolve in a whirl of ethereal red flames, but the familiar smirk that tugged at his mouth was all the response Point Man needed to know his brother was back by his side.

Or perhaps it was the other way around now.

Turning away from the empty spot, Point Man headed for the front door leading back to the wrecked streets of Fairport. As soon as he swung the battered wood open, his hair was blown back by a violent gust of wind, while all around him pieces of rubble were swept up into the air with tornado-like strength. The sky had turned an even darker shade of crimson that seemed to bathe what was left of the city below in blood. Lightning flashed through storm clouds overhead, grim and foreboding as they spiraled like an apocalyptic maelstrom around a blazing eye in the distance. Slabs of pavement had crumbled down into flaming pits, insatiable as they dragged parked vehicles and vacant buildings into their fuming, gaping maws. The grotesque manifestations of the agony of his mother's contractions were complemented by the oppressive silence that hung over the district. A silence heavy with the promise of birth and death.

_At last, we have come full circle. As I was the beginning, you will be the end._

Momentarily lost in thought, Point Man stared out over the burning landscape. Perhaps Fettel was right. Perhaps they were past the eleventh hour.

Perhaps that was the true reason why he was here.

After nine months of being on the run, hiding away in denial and self-loathing, this might be his final chance to make things right. To accept the hand his mother had been holding out to him. To tell her the things they had long run out of time to say. To show his brother where he belonged.

The stand might well be their last one. But, this time, they would make it together.

_Like a family._

Ahead of him, amidst a wild sea of deepening red, the core of white light seemed to flare ever more brightly.

For the first time in a long time, Point Man smiled.

***

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware the Type-7 Particle Weapon is not actually featured in F.3.A.R., but it was too cool not to use.
> 
> The line "Surely you did not think everything would be over just because I am dead?" is a paraphrase from Saw IV. For some reason, I could see a strange parallel between Harlan Wade and Jigsaw.


End file.
